He shivers as if he had trod on mold.
The Golden Queen at her anchor strains.
(Sails on the sapphire, snowing)
Paris walks on the deck like a man in chains.
(And the wind of Fate is blowing.)
He wastes in his love like leaves in a flame,
But his mind is a spear in a dauntless game,
And the face of his doom has a girl’s soft name.
The fifty sailors are whetting their swords.
The brown sun beats on the tarry boards.